Tan Lines
by Sebastian Sebastian
Summary: Madison Cleary runs away from the past, only to find her demons following steadily behind. Young professional, Jack Harper, often looks out of his sky rise office window and wonders what his life is really about. Two very different people living opposite lives. If only they knew what the island of Banoi had in store for them...
1. Chapter 1: Girl on Film

**Author's Note:** This story is rated T due to sexual situations, violence and language. Please do not read if these things offend you, or if you want to remain pure from my horrible mind. To the rest of you sickos, thanks for reading.

I do not own Dead Island. It's just a fun game to play.

* * *

**Tan Lines **

By Sebastian Sebastian

* * *

**Act I**

**Madison**

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Girl On Film**

* * *

**Right now, I'm rethinking my career as an actress.**

Sadly, I'm not the kind of actress you think I'm suggesting- the ones cloaked in glamour, that parade down the red carpet all shiny and squeaky clean, getting blinded by paparazzi camera flashes, dating asexual-mannequin-men just to use them as arm candy. No, I'm not the girl who needs wardrobe changes between television interviews, or getting talked about freely on primetime TV every time she accidently gives the perverts a crotch shot.

I wanted to be, though...at one time or _another_.

There are things I don't talk about, and so I'll spare you the sorted tale of my demise. Let's just say I didn't have the best childhood and I dreamed of nothing more than being a red-headed TV vixen. MTV told me, or at least I translated it so, that the easiest way to reach fame was by using my sexuality; I could attain the American Dream by making sure my lips were extra pouty and my breasts extra perky. I sure as hell went for it. I was sixteen when I broke up with my boring boyfriend, ran away from the trailer park and moved to Los Angeles with the hopes of turning everything around, but _no_... Things never work out the way you plan.

Six years later, here I am. I'm standing before Dillon, the sleaze ball, who has mutton chops and a soul patch. This combination of facial hair makes me rather uneasy, especially when he's telling me to undo my bikini top.

"_Ginger_," he calls me in a tone that makes me cringe and moves the camera towards my face. "The audience is _waiting_."

I force a smile and giggle, as the sea air whips my hair towards the shoreline. Waves slap against the sides of the yacht, and seagulls squawk in the sky. It's gorgeous out and I love the feeling of the sun on my bare shoulders, but I'm concealing unhappiness. I glance down and notice an excessive amount of body-glitter on my stomach. I _hate_ body glitter. It's too hard to wash off.

The captain, who I notice, is smiling at me weirdly as he steers. He licks his lips and I want to curse at him, but instead I smile and offer a small wave. _He gets a free show, doesn't he?_

A smaller boat motors by, and the other four girls are now topless and bubbling the way _certain_ girls do. They jump up and down and yell at the male driver, who has his own scantily clad guest tanning on board. She laughs at the nudity, stands up and undoes her top as well. _Good for her, no tan lines._ The driver laughs and toasts us. I'm almost blinded by his stark white veneers.

Everyone's so much better at partying than I am- all four of the girls with me are drunk and at least two are possibly high. They're _supposed_ to be that way, you know, that whole _Girls Gone Crazy!_ thing- we're supposed to be drunk, making out with each other and telling the world how much we hate our daddies, but... I don't drink much these days. I like to keep my senses to me, especially being so far from home.

"I'm shy," I say, honeying my voice, setting my wide-eyed expression on the camera and putting my manicured fingers to my lips as if to say _oops_.

I have to get it through my thick skull, I wasn't Madison anymore. I was Ginger Slaps, the innocent-looking red head with the big green eyes, thick thighs, wearing a butterfly tattoo on her ribs, and humble breasts. Unlike the real me, _she's_ a naive college freshman studying to be a marine biologist. She is from a well-off Christian family, but is bored of her wholesome upbringing and wants a taste of _naughty_ adventure.

"Don't be shy, baby," he says, putting his hat on backwards with his free hand and crouching down to get a better view of my athletic body. "Show _daddy_ what you got."

"Ok," I whisper innocently, my hesitance isn't acting, but Dillon doesn't know that. "I guess I could for a moment."

Slowly, I move my hands behind me to start untying my top. I can feel the secure string start to unravel, one more tug would expose me to the world. Why do I care? I have done this countless times before, but this time is different...

"Dillon, I can't-" I say dropping my wide eyed I've-never-done-this-before persona, and retying the string. I place my hand on my stomach and sigh, I've actually done this one too many times.

"What? What's wrong?" Dillon puts the camera down and looks at me with concern. The girls stare at me strangely. I realize they don't like me much. "Are you getting sea sick? If you're going to puke, please do it over the railing."

"I don't feel comfortable with this," I say. "I don't want to do this anymore."

The other four girls, whom I don't really know, look rather annoyed. They roll their eyes and grab for their tops.

"Let's go pop another bottle of champagne," one of the girls huff. She shoots dirty looks my way, but I ignore her. Unsatisfied by the interaction, she growls and picks up her bikini from off the ground. "I can't work like this. I'm just so sick of _her_."

"She's a prude," says a plastic looking blonde girl with a higher pitched voice. She's following behind and swiveling her naked hips. "She's not going to last long in _this_ industry."

The girls disappear below deck to drink some more before they have to start filming again.

"What do you mean, you don't want to do this anymore?" he asks. "God, _Ginger_, we just flew you to effing _Banoi_, for God Sakes. It's beautiful here. You don't even have to touch the other girls, all you gotta do is get drunk, have fun, and get naked. You've done it a thousand times."

"This time is different," I say. "I'm not sure if this is for me anymore."

"You're not _sure_?" Dillon says angrily, wagging his finger in my face. "I've had enough of this. We're done here. We're done because you're _fired_."

I don't say anything in return. I don't like the way his finger is so close to my head, and I want to break it. I wish I could walk away, but that's kind of hard to do on a boat.

"Captain," Dillon shouts at the disappointed-faced boat driver. "Take us back to shore."

Dillon looks at me as if he wants to punch me in the face. He probably would if he thought he could get away with it.

_Don't do this, Dillon. I'm warning you._

"YOU'RE DONE, YOU HEAR ME," he's gaining fuel. "You're _finished_. You'd better find your own way back home, because I'm not paying for you to act like you're freakin' Princess of _Titsylvania, _Ginger_._"

"My name is _Madison_," I say through gritted teeth.

_Just let this be, Dillon, please..._

"You have no name," Dillon spits on me when he screams. I can feel the hotness of breath. He's too close to me now. "You're _dead_ to me. You're a loser, a _reject_. That's why Max doesn't want you anymore. No wonder he beat you. He's going to _love_ hearing about this. Good luck finding something to do other than this. The only skill you have is being a complete waste of-"

I hit him in the wind pipe, and he falls the ground with a thud. He's coughing, painfully struggling for air. I don't feel any better, really, but he shouldn't have screamed at me that way.

I guess that was my official resignation.

Right now, I'm rethinking my career as an actress.


	2. Chapter 2: Who Do You Voodoo?

**Author's Note:** This story is rated T due to sexual situations, violence and language. Please do not read if these things offend you, or if you want to remain pure from my horrible mind. To the rest of you sickos, thanks for reading.

I do not own Dead Island. It's just a fun game to play.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**Who Do You Voodoo?**

* * *

**I sit on the corner of our blanket,** staring out at the white sands of the busy beach. I apply sunscreen to my arm and shoulders. My sunglasses are on, my legs stretched out, and one earbud in so I can barely listen to the music my iPod.

I'm listening to _Rachmaninov_.

I'm with company, and I think it'd be impolite to drown out the world.

I watch as children build a sand castle, and boys with six packs parade around smiling at us. I roll my eyes, but they can't see me behind my big movie-star-shades.

"I'm glad you got this job," the girl sunbathing next to me smiles. Her brightly colored bikini looks amazing on her cocoa skin. "Now we can be roommates _and_ workmates. I can't wait to see you there tonight."

"Yeah I know," I say, sounding a little less excited than I mean to, and handing her the bottle. "Can you do my back?"

"What's wrong?" she sits up, sensing my lack of enthusiasm, grabs the sunscreen from me and starts to rub the cream on my shoulders.

"Nothing, it's a great job," I smile. "I'm really appreciative, thank you for setting it up for me."

"_Girl_, with a body like yours," she coos. "You're going to have the fattest purse on this island."

"_Please_, this won't last," I say looking off to the distance and lightly caressing my stomach. "But for right now, I've always been a tourist attraction, it's what I do. I really just want to afford to go back home."

"And do what?" she asks, giving me a light massage on my shoulders now.

"Be a regular person, I guess," I say. "Maybe I'll go back to school."

"You will," she pokes her head up from around me so I can see her and smiles. "Maybe I'll come with you."

"You should," I say. "When was the last time you were back in the states?"

"A year ago for Christmas," she squirts another glob of sun-block and starts on my lower back. "Environmentalist were doing some demonstration when I was leaving the island, and my flight got delayed. I was visiting my abuela. She's ninety-two, can you believe it? She was wearing silver sweat pants and a matching jacket when I saw her. She said she wanted to wear heels, but my mother hid them all."

"Grandma has style," I say, smiling slightly, breathing in the sea air, and watching seagulls fly freely in the sky.

It's cliche, but I thought: I_ want to be one of those birds._

"Eva, how would you describe the smell of the ocean?" I ask.

"That's a random question, don't you think?"

"Well, does the smell have a name? There's a million descriptive words for a million things, but no one's ever written about what the ocean smells like, have they?"

"Not that I know of," Eva says, sounding distracted. "But then again, I don't read."

"Well how would you describe it?" I ask.

"Sea-smell?" Eva is finished putting lotion on me and sits next to me, putting her head on my shoulder and flicking sand off her taut stomach.

Another group of shirtless men pass by and they wave. Eva whispers "hi boys" to them and offers a flirtatious gesture.

One of the boys shouts, "You want to party at our cabin ladies? We're _single_."

"Sorry, we're lesbians," Eva lies, pulling me closer to her.

"_Hot_," the boys stop. "Can we watch?"

"Our _hot_, _passionate_, _hours_ of love making are not for you," I say. "Take a cold shower."

"_Whatever_," the group of guys walk off defeated, but I'm sure they're just going to harass more girls.

Eva watches the boys walk off, pulls down her sunglasses and looks at me, her brown eyes beaming,

"This is bad, but doesn't the ocean smell kind of like..." Eva squeezes my bottle of sun-tan lotion making the milky liquid inside squirt out.

"_Ew_," I lightly slap her arm, and disgustedly amused I chuckle "Shut _up."_

_I guess girls have to have a little bit of fun._

* * *

I watch the flashing lights splatter over the darkened bodies.

They're moving mindlessly to the vibrations of the speakers like inebriated zombies.

I feel like their leader.

I dance on the platform, standing next to a large palm tree, glistening with sweat. A cool breeze brushes against me and I close my eyes. My fingers run along the curves of my body, and my hips swing freely from side to side. I don't feel very sexy, but I know I'm putting on a good show wearing my boy shorts, and a sheer blouse, with electrical tape covering my nipples. The music is deafening, but the sounds are drowned out with my flesh colored ear plugs. Another girl is dancing on a platform nearby. She's letting an old man in a hawaiian shirt grab her in areas that make me feel a twinge of illness. After he's done he stuffs a twenty in her underwear. That happens sometimes in this out-door club.

Some of the dancers go above and beyond for their customers.

I can't judge them. They're getting paid.

I'm a little distracted watching a young woman wasted in a skirt, her back leaning against the wall, her eyes closed in drunken bliss. She moves to the music limply, swaying slightly, as a muscular man wearing a black tank top and baggy jeans stands in front of her, caressing her neck with his lips. His hands are hidden in front of his crotch, and I can only imagine what they're doing. I don't care really, but the way he's going at her neck, I joke to myself that he's eating her.

The song has ended, and it's my last platform dance for the night.

"Madison!" Someone lightly taps my arm and I look to see Eva. She's holding a tray full of shot glasses, and her beautiful brown skin seems to glow under the lights.

"Hey," I take out the pieces of wax that deafen me, and kneel down on the platform and give her a hug.

"You're on shot duty now. It's my turn to be groped by the old tourist guys," she says.

"Sure," I say jumping off the platform and taking the tray. "Are people buying these things?"

Generally there will be nights where the vacationing crowd prefers something a bit harder than the juiced up Mai-Tai shots we sell_._

"Sam B is at the Royal Palms Resort party. So we're not _as_ busy, but there's a group of girls in the corner having a bachelorette party," she says hopping onto the platform. "They bought three rounds. I'd try them first."

I smile at her as she starts dancing. She's beautiful when she moves her body that way, but to her, she's a failed ballerina, a drop out from Julliard.

"Am I going to see you at our hut tonight?" I jokingly shout.

It's a running joke among resort employees that we live in squaller. _Huts_. They're really cabins, the same vacation homes that the tourists stay in, but as you can imagine, sometimes living there full-time is not the most ideal.

_When there's a giant hissing cock-roach, the size of one of your socks, crawling on the ceiling of the bathroom... _

_...you tend to see your surroundings less paradisiacal._

"I'm not sure," she responds, still in movement. "Marco wants me to spend the night. It's our three month."

"It's been that long?" I ask.

"Yeah, Maddie, can you believe you've been here for _four?_"

I pause. It had been that long since the incident on the yacht; since I had been abandoned here on the island of Banoi. In my desperation I found the flyer hanging in the hotel:

LOOKING FOR A ROOMMATE?

Are you fun, but not crazy? Do you need a place to stay where the rent is cheap?

Call Eva Acevedo at xxx-xxx-xxxx.

Eva was a doll. In the short time we had known each other, we were like sisters.

I take the tray and walk through the dwindling crowd. I notice a man in his bathing suit hunched over at the bar. He's breathing heavily, and I look at him scoffing and wondering why people can't just hold their liquor.

_He'll be kicked out soon._

I make my way to the bachelorettes, who are cackling and talking about their sex lives. I smile at them, amused and offer the tray.

"Would you guys like to try some of our famous Mai-Tai Sh-" I start to say, but they're not paying attention to me. They're looking behind me.

Before I could finish my sentence, I feel a jolt to my side. I stumble and fall, and the shots drench me as the tray of liquor crashes to the floor.

I jump up, enraged, the palm of my hand gets cut by a shard of glass. I swing around and see one of the security men being attacked by the drunk man in the bathing suit.

The man jumps on top of the security guy, baring his teeth and clawing. His scream is high and shrill, almost inhuman. It is certainly not in a way I have ever heard someone scream before. The bouncer cries out for help, his arm gushing blood from the nasty bite, fighting off the raging maniac. Other bouncers rush by me, pushing me to the side, trying to break up the strange scuffle. I watch the bachelorette party panic and run out into the darkness. I stand there alone, out in the open, and look for Eva, who is no longer on the platform.

_What the hell is going on?_

I back up slowly, shaking, continuing to watch the tussle. The bouncers pull the crazed man off of his victim, but the man continues to fight. He screams and groans, and bites another security man.

I stare in awe, finding myself backed up to the wall of one of the storage huts.

Suddenly, a hand grabs my arm and pulls me with great force, their dull finger nails digging into me.

They're pulling me into the storage hut.

I yelp, but in the commotion, no one can hear.


	3. Chapter 3: Showing

**Author's Note:** This story is rated T due to sexual situations, violence and language. This chapter in particular is a bit rough. Please do not read if these things offend you, or if you want to remain pure from my horrible mind. To the rest of you sickos, thanks for reading.

I do not own Dead Island. It's just a fun game to play.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Showing**

* * *

**Fear slithers up my spine** as I watch the overhead lamp sway back and forth in the storage room. I hear a click, as someone locks the storage cabin's door. The light dances around, leaving most of the room in darkness. My stilettos clap against the concrete, as I stumble into the quarters. I finally lose my balance and crash to the ground in front of a dusty old full-length mirror.

The mirror sits sandwiched neatly between what seems like debris from nuclear fallout. It's a dank storage area; a glorified junk closet- the place where meaningless trifles are thrown about and forgotten. Cardboard boxes are piled on top of one another, disintegrating, some toppled over like umber domino pieces. Bottles lay broken on weathered shelves, metal objects that once shone with luster, sit rusted and lifeless. I hear the faint cries from outside, but I'm not worried about that anymore. I breathe heavily through my nose, taking in the scent of must, old whiskey, and the familiar smell of menthols. Strangely the combination of smells put me at ease, but I know better than to believe I'm safe.

Blood drips from my dirty hand as I notice him in mirror's reflection.

He's standing a few feet behind me.

The fluorescents steady, and his cigarette glows orange as he inhales the smoke. At first, I think I might be hallucinating.

But I'm _not_.

He stands there, his free hand hidden behind his back, staring at me with his crooked smile, looking like the poster boy of every stupid young girl's abusive ex-boyfriend.

"You don't smile enough," he says. "You have such a pretty face, and you keep it secret because you don't smile enough."

_He's been watching me tonight._

"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask, turning around to confront him. "I move a thousand miles away and you're _still_ obsessed with me?"

"You're so beautiful when you dance like that," he says. "Don't ruin it by being a smartass."

"Max, I don't know what you're doing here, but the bouncers don't fool around. They'll royally screw you up," I stutter. "All I have to do is _scream_."

"Scream then," he calls my bluff. "I think they're dealing with something else right now."

"Did you do that?" I ask. "Did you start that commotion?"

"No, that was purely _coincidental_," he responds.

"What do you want from me?" I ask looking at my bleeding hand. It stings, but I'll survive.

"I want the money you owe us," he snickers at me, as if he knows I'm playing dumb. "Me and Dylan."

"Money? I don't owe you _anything_," I say trying to push him aside so I can be reunited with the chaos that seems to still be bubbling outside of the door, but he doesn't budge.

"Darling," he smiles. "You owe me your life, really."

"I don't want to do it anymore," I say through gritted teeth. "I quit your little life _fair and square_."

"That's fine," he starts calmly, "But I _still_ want three-thousand dollars for all the free stays at hotels, the clothes, the meals...I want to be reimbursed for _everything_. Also I want another thousand for having to fly out to this stupid island so I could FETCH YOUR WORTHLESS ASS." He's screaming at me now, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me.

"I don't have three thousand dollars," I say pulling out of his grip. "If I had that much money, I wouldn't be trapped on this island."

"You _did_," Max whispers, looking away from me, his voice quivering slightly.

"What are you talking about?" I ask indignantly.

"Why did you have such a change of heart?" he asks me.

"Because, Max, I _changed_."

"You were pregnant, weren't you?" Max spits when he talks, and my heart drops. I won't respond.

_This means trouble._

_He grabs me again and shakes me so hard, I start to see stars._

"I don't know what you're talking about," I scream dizzily when he finally stops. He pulls away from me, hiding his face.

He's crying now.

"I found it," he whimpers. "I found the test."

"Max…" I say, reaching out to touch his shoulder lightly.

He senses me and swings around slapping me hard in the face, causing me to crash to the ground.

"I want the money you owe me," he huffs.

In the corner of my eye, slightly behind me, I see the head of a rusty-looking wrench sticking out teasingly from one of the boxes. Slowly, I push myself up, and blow the hair out of my face. I look at Max, cock my head to the side and inch back, trying my hardest to keep him distracted.

"Even if I had the money, Max," I say, honeying my voice. "You'd still want something else from me, wouldn't you?"

"You know me too well," Max replies.

"Why did we even break up, Maxy?" I ask, finally backing up into the box holding the wrench.

Max walks closer to me, blocking me from moving, unwittingly cornering me between him and a hidden blunt object.

"You don't love me," he says, and he kisses me.

I'm emotionally numb. His tongue pokes into my mouth long and deep, twirling and tangling with mine. I can taste whiskey, cigarettes and Deimos bars, but I have no feelings for him other than hatred.

_That's why I could never let you raise a child._

I watch as his eyes are closed tight, scrambling to feel all the things neither of us have ever felt, and I carefully pull the long wrench out of the cardboard. I place it behind me as he pulls away.

"Well then," Max looks at me, now calm, tosses his cigarette and gently caresses my face. His fingers reek of burnt tabacco. "Does this mean we can get back together?"

I keep tight lipped, and grip the wrench behind me.

_Please don't see. Please don't see._

I smile.

"Tell me the truth," he whispers sweetly. "Were you pregnant?"

Reluctantly, I nod.

"Are you still pregnant?"

My eyes grow wider; I'm unable to speak the unforgiveable words. The thought of it makes my stomach churn.

Max grabs me once again, gripping my face hard with one of his large hands. He pulls me closer to his face, his pale blue eyes looked crazed and widened in rage. His other hand tightens around whatever is hidden behind his back.

"DO YOU THINK I'M STUPID?" he screams.

"Max, it's not what you think it is," I say sweetly, but I'm a little panicked.

"You don't have any fucking money, because you killed my fucking _child_," he screams.

I fight the urge to hit him with wrench now. I know, he'd see my hand and forcibly stop me.

An impulsive act such as that would only make his anger peak, and so I have to _wait._

"You need to be taught a lesson," he says and pushes me back into the boxes. He backs away, pacing, putting both hands behind his back now. I grip onto the wrench harder so it won't fall.

"What's behind your back, Max?" I ask.

"Your lesson," he replies.

"I _care_ about you," I lie. "Please don't do anything you're going to regret."

He stops and looks at me, moving both hands in front of him. He's holding something metal and sharp. It reflects the light from the overhead, and I am almost blinded.

"I've been thinking about this long and good, Maddie," he says pacing with the knife. "And I think…"

"You think what?" I ask.

"I think it's your face," Max says slowly creeping closer to me. "If your face weren't so pretty, I wouldn't be in love with you so much."

"What?" I gasp.

"Your face," he says again.

"Max, what are you saying?"

He holds the knife in the air and sprints towards me. I scream, chucking the wrench in his direction, clinging to the boxes that surround us, hoping one will spring to life and protect me. The wrench clocks Max in the face with a large cracking sound, but it doesn't stop his movement. The knife makes contact with my cheek, the force sends me crashing sideways into boxes, causing them to topple over.

I fall to the floor along with the cardboard crates, feeling a burning pain on my cheek that is instantly unbearable.

I writhe in pain, tears flowing freely down my cheeks. I can taste the copper of blood in my mouth.

There's pressure on my arms, and when I open my eyes, I see Max, breathing heavily on top of me, pinning me down with his knees. Blood is dripping onto my stomach from his broken nose, and one of his eyes is closed. The knife is still in his hand, and I am horrified to see my own blood dripping from it.

"Not so pretty anymore, huh?" he taunts me, but his words sound like grunting.

I grunt, chocking on blood. I can't say a word, all I can do is drown and lay there, weakly waiting for him to finish his deed.

Max raises the knife again to continue his plan to disfigure me, but he stops.

Something heavy bangs against the door.

_Bang._

_Thank god._

Max panics and jumps up, cursing.

_Bannnnnng. Scratttchh._

"They're trying to get in here," he screams to himself. "I'm fucking _ruined_."

I glance over to see the wrench a few feet away from me, and begin crawling towards it.

_Bannnnng. Scratttcch. Boom._

"What am I going to do?" Max stands in front of the door, his back facing me, his hands on his head. He's purely terrified.

_But he shouldn't be afraid of what's on the outside_.

As I crawl to the wrench, I catch my reflection in the mirror and I gasp at the sight of my cheek.

The skin is sagging, pink bits of flesh sticking out jaggedly. Blood spews out freely, and I can see my wisdom teeth. He did what he wanted to. I'm disfigured.

"I guess I have to kill her," he speaks to himself again.

I reach for the wrench and push myself up.

Max doesn't see me behind him.

I raise the weapon high in the air, wanting to do nothing more than to kill him- bash his skull in like a piñata for Las Posadas.

...But I only let myself hit him once across the back of the head.

I hear a crack, and watch him collapse the ground, in a loud thud.

He's not going to get up for a while, but he's not _dead_. I don't think.

I place my hand on my stomach, feeling for the life that lay in my womb.

I am _not_ a monster. I refuse to allow an innocent child be born to someone with blood-stained hands. My child already has to deal with being the offspring of the bloodied man who lay in front of me, and I've had my fill of enough bad decisions for one lifetime.

I thank god that my belly isn't any rounder. Women generally start showing around their fourth month, but sometimes the pregnancy belly happens a bit later. Either way, Max will never know my secret... not while he's locked away in a Banoi prison.

I lower the wrench, panting and flinching in pain at my cheek. I stumble to the cabin's door, ready to open it, expecting to see my security guards standing and ready for action.

_Bang. Bannnnng. Scrattttchhh. Boom. Growl._

I stop, barely touching the door's cold steel knob. _What was that?_


End file.
